


The Maze of Memory

by Saucery



Series: Hartwin Stories [13]
Category: Kingsman: The Secret Service (2015)
Genre: Action/Adventure, Age Difference, Angst, Bad Guys Made Them Do It, Badass, Canon Compliant, Character Death Fix, Crime Fighting, Cross-Generation Relationship, Cruise Ships, Daddy Kink, Desire, Devotion, Dom/sub Undertones, Drama, Dubious Consent, Epiphanies, Escape, Eventual Happy Ending, Explicit Sexual Content, Fix-It, Greece, Hotels, Identity Issues, Identity Reveal, Loss of Identity, Love, Loyalty, Lust, M/M, Master/Servant, Master/Slave, Memories, Memory Loss, Mentor/Protégé, Mission Fic, Mutual Non-Con, Mutual Pining, Organized Crime, Plans, Plotty, Post-Canon, Post-Movie(s), Psychological Trauma, Recovered Memories, Recovery, Repressed Memories, Rescue Missions, Romance, Secret Identity, Seduction, Self-Discovery, Service Kink, Service Submission, Sexual Slavery, Sexual Tension, Slave Trade, Spies & Secret Agents, Strategy & Tactics, Subterfuge, Teamwork, Temporary Amnesia, Top Harry, Undercover As Gay, Undercover Missions
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-04-20
Updated: 2015-04-20
Packaged: 2018-03-24 21:51:12
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,343
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3785539
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Saucery/pseuds/Saucery
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Harry isn’t dead; he’s a mind-wiped sex slave that caters to a very specific clientele. When Eggsy embarks on a rescue mission, he gets more than he bargained for.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Maze of Memory

**Author's Note:**

> Based on the premise that Richmond Valentine had his fingers in many pies, including human trafficking. He developed (and profited from) a mind-wipe drug that allowed for the successful domestication of even the most stubborn slaves.
> 
> And you can’t get more stubborn than Harry Hart.
> 
> Trust me when I say that, while Harry is mind-wiped in this story, he is certainly not helpless, and is as canny and as badass as he was before. It takes a while for the full extent of his cleverness to come to the fore, because he’s _also_ smart enough to hide that cleverness, but I hope you’ll enjoy the journey.
> 
> A tiger can only be tamed for so long, after all.

* * *

 

Eggsy lounged on the deck of _The Serenissima_ , a luxury Venetian cruise ship, sipping a martini with a straw hat shading his face. To the casual onlooker, he would be an average rich tourist catching the sunlight, but that was not his true purpose on this ship. While _The Serenissima_ had been in operation for a decade, it had, in the past two years, become the vessel secretly delivering clients of an illegal slave-trade to a privately-owned island—an island that served as the base of operations for Petro Kosta, a Greek American mafioso and the leader of an international human trafficking ring.

To all appearances, the island was just another holiday resort dotting the Mediterranean Sea. It wasn’t listed on popular tourism websites, and it wasn’t possible to gain access to it with run-of-the-mill travel agents, but then, many of the most exclusive resorts weren’t. Only celebrities, aristocrats, politicians and those with tons of tax-exempt cash—and influential connections—could buy a room at the resort. A room that would be attended by a sex slave, morning and night, for the whole stay.

While most of the cabins on board _The Serenissima_ were occupied by standard vacationers, a tenth of them were occupied by Kosta’s customers, who would be surreptitiously dropped off at Telos, Kosta’s island, while the remaining voyagers would continue on the standard cruise from Venice to Greece, clueless about the activities of their cohorts. It was clever, hiding the guilty among the innocent; the passenger manifold of _The Serenissima_ wasn’t, therefore, overly questionable to customs police, as it was populated by the usual mix of wealthy retirees, reclusive tycoons and honeymooning couples. If a few of those reclusive tycoons had twisted agendas, nobody suspected it.

Eggsy was focusing on the technicalities of his mission, because if he focused on its purpose, he would lose his mind. Six months after Harry’s death, the Kingsmen had begun to infiltrate Kosta’s ring and had discovered, to their amazement, that Harry was still alive—and a slave. A slave that had no notion of his identity, as Kosta’s ring used a mind-wipe drug developed by Richmond Valentine to subdue its slaves.

Valentine was dead, but his legacy abided, perpetuating evil.

As for Eggsy, he vacillated between a terrifying wrath and a soul-crushing guilt, thinking that Harry had been without his memories, being abused horrifically, for half a year. He’d been abandoned to the worst imaginable fate, while Eggsy had been—had been _moving on_ , or trying to, and—

No. If he dwelled on it, his grip on his martini would tighten suspiciously, and he couldn’t afford to be anything other than what he was: Gareth Wentworth, lackadaisical heir to a monumental fortune and determined to waste every penny of it. If he was to rescue Harry successfully, he had to be completely in-character, because several members of Kosta’s syndicate were patrolling the ship, disguised as crew. The slightest hint of subterfuge would result in Eggsy floating face-down in the sapphire-blue waters of the Mediterranean, after a “tragic and inexplicable suicide,” long before he ever got to liberate Harry.

“We leave no Kingsman behind,” Merlin had said, “but we can’t send in a third operative to recover you. Take care of yourself, and be perpetually aware that you are deep undercover, and that you will be unable to interact with me, or with Kingsman. Every corner of Telos is closely watched by Kosta, with the exception of the rooms of his guests. I can’t plant bugs on you, and you can’t wear your standard-issue Kingsman spectacles. While you may commandeer the communication devices of the resort itself, you must not contact us till you are prepared for extraction, and have neutralized all immediate threats. Until then, you’re alone, out there.”

Well. Not entirely alone. Prior to being deployed, Eggsy had been told that there was a CIA agent on an independent investigation, posing as Sumitra Ghosh, an oil magnate’s middle-aged wife indulging in covert infidelity. Still, Eggsy couldn’t expect substantial assistance from her, if any, as they were both undercover.

Based on the intelligence obtained by Merlin, the blackmail-wary clientele of Kosta’s slavery resort had insisted on their rooms not being monitored, and a significant portion had security personnel, anyway, proficient at locating and deactivating cameras and surveillance devices. That said, the rest of the resort was fair play, and each room had a guard that would check its resident for wiretaps or bugs upon each reentry into the room.

Essentially, the resort was infiltration-proof. Or it was meant to be. Without any evidence of wrongdoing, Kosta could escape scot-free, as the proprietor of a restrictive but otherwise legitimate resort. Telos maintained a delicate balance between allowing its denizens to debauch their slaves in seclusion, and keeping itself off the record, to boot.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” came the announcement over the ship’s speakers, in a strong Greek accent, “we are about to stop for supplies at the island of Telos. Those who have previously purchased tickets to the Telos Royale Resort are requested to report to the disembarkation point. Their luggage will be carried to the resort in advance of their arrival. Thank you, and have a pleasant stopover.”

Eggsy yawned, stretched, and rose, discarding the martini on his beach chair. He ambled casually to his cabin, where a uniformed attendant was waiting politely outside. “Good afternoon, sir. I am here to collect your luggage,” he said, and Eggsy waved him in, cracking an even bigger yawn, not deigning to reply to a mere servant.

Twenty minutes later, _The Serenissima_ docked at Telos, and Eggsy got into a safari-style, open-sided bus with velvet seats, a pretty waitress, equally pretty hors-d’oeuvres, and tall, slender glasses of chilled champagne that clinked like dainty bells. There were four passengers, in addition to Eggsy and Sumitra Ghosh, and none of them had security details. The resort’s reputation for discretion must have preceded it.

Eggsy lolled on his seat, munching distractedly on a slice of Bruschetta, as he peered out at the idyllic island scenery with lazy, sleepy eyes. It was but an hour or two past midday, after all, and Gareth Wentworth was accustomed to not getting up before noon, normally after partying until dawn. At this time of the day, he would still be as sluggish as a sloth.

Eventually, the scenic tour came to an end. The soothing greenery segued into a paved road atop a sloping hill, leading to a pair of towering golden gates. The gates sported what Eggsy recognized as a Greek-inspired coat of arms—the sinuous shape and glittering leaves of the very olive tree that often featured in Kosta’s business correspondence, stamped in crimson wax on cream envelopes.

At the bus’s approach, the gates swung inward noiselessly, and without any obvious inspection or verification process. There was no sign of the paramilitary force that was said to roam the premises, but Eggsy supposed that its presence would be the equivalent of an iron hand in a velvet glove, and that the demure massage therapists and chirpy bellboys at the resort were most probably the actual face of that force, and must be armed ingeniously, much as the Kingsmen were.

The bus parked in front of a glass doorway. Eggsy stepped off it and directly into the air-conditioned lobby of the Telos Royale, where Vivaldi played faintly in the background, and giant crystal chandeliers reflected off the marble floor like miniature galaxies in a lake of milky white.

The reception desk was a hulk of artistically warped, rustic oak, with more gilt olive leaves curling along the edge. Elegant men and women stood behind the desk and smiled beatifically at the visitors, although Eggsy noted that their palms had gun-calluses. That confirmed his theory about Kosta’s pet army. Breaking out of this resort wasn’t going to be easy.

A woman with traditional Greek braids piled upon her head came forward to greet him. “Mr. Wentworth,” she said, in fluent English, “I am Alcina, your liaison with the Telos management and the handler of your… companion. If you have any complaints or concerns, about your companion or the food or, indeed, anything else, do not hesitate to summon me. Consider me your personal djinn,” she chuckled, giving him a tiny remote, “and this? This is your lamp. Simply press the blue button, and I will find you.”

“Um.” Eggsy squinted at the remote dubiously. “ _How_ will you find me?”

Alcina’s accommodating attitude didn’t falter. “The remote emits a signal that pinpoints your exact location.”

“It doesn’t tape me, does it?” Eggsy frowned. “When I’m with my slave?”

“Oh, no, sir. As you have been informed, that aspect of your residency will not be under observation. Nonetheless, for your well-being and convenience, and for the safety of the dignitaries residing at this establishment, any area outside of your suite is supervised. You are welcome to have your staff brought in to inspect your suite, to be assured of your privacy.”

“Nah,” said Eggsy, as if tiring of the seriousness of the conversation, when he had better things to do. A slave to fuck. “Whatever. Where’s my suite?”

“This way,” she said, and led him through a series of byzantine corridors, decorated with murals depicting sensual mythological scenes, starring Leda and the swan, Dionysus and his devotees, and Pan engaged in a variety of tastefully titillitating acts with shepherd-boys and shepherdesses. If the effect was intended to be aphrodisiacal for those already contemplating sex, it was rather successful.

For Eggsy, it was sickening.

Eggsy’s room was unnumbered, as all the rooms were; he couldn’t divine how a guest was meant to locate his or her room, unless it was by summoning a “djinn” like Alcina. Or the slaves themselves might double as guides—if they were permitted to retain the short-term memories necessary for learning the layout of the resort.

Alcina pressed the red button on the remote—its only other button—and the door to the suite whooshed open like something out of Star Trek. Inside, the suite was sumptuous, dotted with massive Grecian urns, colorful flower arrangements, silk-upholstered divans, bowls of gleaming grapes, and yet more mythology-inspired tapestries. Past an arch supported by Doric pillars, Eggsy glimpsed the corner of a colossal bed, with purple throws and scarlet cushions tumbling over the shimmering sheets.

What halted Eggsy, however, was the man kneeling in front of the entrance, head bowed and hands folded docilely in his lap.

Eggsy’s heart thudded, and he was gripped by a dizziness so strong that he scarcely kept his feet. This was—this was—

It was _Harry_. The mentor Eggsy had mourned. The father figure he had missed, so desperately that it had brought him to tears. The beloved friend that, upon finding again, he had sworn to free—and to avenge.

“This is your companion,” Alcina announced, blithely, as if Eggsy wasn’t struggling not to clench his fists, not to get Harry the hell out of here and burn this rotten place to the ground. “The one you chose from our catalog, and booked weeks in advance. He is a popular request, amongst patrons that favor more… mature… escorts. I trust he is to your satisfaction?”

Thankfully, regardless of Eggsy’s inner turmoil, Gareth Wentworth persisted in being an utter twit. “Mmm,” said Gareth, appreciatively. “I always did crave a daddy to top the heck out of me, but you know the media,” he said to Alcina, confidingly. “The tabloids would be all over me like locusts, if I dated anyone that wasn’t painfully vanilla and in their twenties. Not to mention, my _real_ daddy would have ’em shot.” He laughed, like the prospect of having a lover shot wasn’t upsetting. “God, I hate the bastard. He’ll have a coronary when I tell him what I was doing for three weeks on a little Greek island in the middle of nowhere. I pray he’ll have a coronary, so I can get his money and shag whoever I fancy.”

“Ah,” said Alcina, in a tone that was both bland and sympathetic. “If your companion fails to meet your expectations, do notify us. We will endeavor to replace him, without charge.”

“I’ll update you if his, heh, performance is sub-par.”

“Given his conditioning, that is unlikely,” Alcina said, and Eggsy fought the urge to punch her until she burst, like an over-ripe fruit. What conditioning? What had they done to Harry? “He is unnamed, for he is yours in every sense, to name and to claim as you see fit.”

“He’s a slave,” Eggsy said, dismissively, in spite of his seething rage. All he knew was that he couldn’t call Harry anything but his name, not after that name had been stolen from him. For Eggsy to name him something else would be the final insult, the final injury in an endless list of injuries. “He can be any old Tom, Dick or Harry, as far as I care. In fact,” Eggsy smirked, “let’s call him Harry. I’ll test-drive the dick part, myself.”

“As you command,” said Alcina. “There is a compulsory orientation in thirty minutes, which your companion—Harry—will take you to. Goodbye.” So saying, Alcina bowed out, the door swishing closed behind her.

Leaving Eggsy with a man who both was, and wasn’t, Harry Hart.

Eggsy couldn’t believe it, despite being here, despite being on a mission. Harry was so _different_. His hair wasn’t carefully gelled back. Instead, it was styled into loose, chestnut-brown curls, fashioned to look sleep-mussed and charming, as if he’d just rolled out of bed after a night of love-making.

And he was wearing a [chiton](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Chiton_\(costume\)#/media/File:Young_man_exomis_Musei_Capitolini_MC892.jpg). A genuine chiton, made of sleek black fabric with silver filigree at the hems, ending at his thighs, exposing their impressive musculature as Harry knelt. He was barefoot, and his left shoulder was bare, too, uncovered by the chiton and leading to a defined, well-exercised pectoral.

That, and Harry was oiled. Subtly, but noticeably. There was a luster to his now-tanned limbs, as if he were a demigod wandering the earth, lit by the sun and glowing from within.

He was a creature of desire, created _to_ be desired, and there was no doubt about it. His form and his posture both invited touch, and Eggsy was struck speechless, because—

Because—

Because Harry had been an accomplished flirt, but he had never embodied lust like this, before. It was as though this were someone altogether alien. Not Harry, but a slave.

A sex slave. A sex _toy_.

Eggsy’s rage returned, twofold, and he found himself shaking.

“Master,” said Harry, and Eggsy startled badly, since that was Harry’s voice, as cultured and British as always. Apparently, a mind-wipe couldn’t erase an accent. “How may I serve you?”

“By not calling me that, for starters.”

“Kindly advise me as to how I should address you.”

“Eggsy,” blurted Eggsy, because in the relative shelter of this room, he wouldn’t tolerate being anybody else. Especially not a rapist arsehole like Gareth Wentworth, who didn’t hesitate hiring slaves to fulfill desires he didn’t have the guts to pursue openly. “Not ‘Master.’ Just… Eggsy.”

Harry paused, as if coming to the conclusion that idiotic guests were entitled to choose idiotic pseudonyms, before raising his head and smiling.

Eggsy’s breath caught at the sight.

Had Harry always been this _beautiful_?

“Eggsy,” said Harry, with such affection—such familiar, recognizable affection—that Eggsy nearly forgot that it was the false affection of a trained slave for an unwanted master, of a slave perpetually under threat of punishment. “You’re shaking. Please,” Harry said, and stunned Eggsy by placing his hands lightly around Eggsy’s waist and sliding them down, toward his crotch. “There is no cause to be nervous. Let me relax you.”

Eggsy stumbled backward, almost upsetting a vase. “N-no,” he said. “Thanks, but I’m—I’m fine. You should. You should get up. You don’t have to kneel.”

But Harry didn’t get up. He withdrew his hands from Eggsy, and slipped them under the fringe of his own chiton, pushing it up, and up, and up, until Eggsy could discern the shadowy shape of his balls, and of his thick, quiescent cock. “If you do not wish for me to pleasure you, perhaps you wish for me to pleasure myself…?”

Eggsy gaped, shocked beyond words. When Harry took Eggsy’s silence as permission and ran his thumb _along_ his cock, Eggsy jolted into action. “No!” he exclaimed, panicked. This was going in directions he hadn’t expected it to go. He hadn’t expected Harry to offer, to initiate. He’d thought that a mind-wiped Harry would be meek and biddable, incapable of budging without instruction. “Stop. Just—stop.”

Harry paused again, and said, “You did say you preferred to be topped. Maybe my demeanor is not dominant enough to satisfy you.” He uncoiled from his crouch, like a snake or a whip, and was on Eggsy in an instant.

Soon, Eggsy had his wrists pinned to the stucco, and a scantily clad Harry Hart in a far-too-revealing chiton looming over him like the world’s most menacing wet dream.

Eggsy’s pulse raced, because was this Harry’s Kingsman training, coming to the fore? Did Harry’s body remember what his mind did not? And if so, was there hope for Harry to remember his history? To remember Eggsy?

“My sweet boy,” Harry said, effectively trapping Eggsy against the wall, “I can certainly ‘top the heck’ out of you, if that is what you require. I can become whatever my client asks of me,” he said, “and this is no exception.”

There was a twisted sort of pride in the statement, as if Harry was still a perfectionist dedicated to mastering his craft, whether as a Kingsman agent or a sex slave, and that his professional integrity was offended whenever someone underestimated him.

Harry had pulverized Dean’s gang in that pub, once, just to prove he could.

What was the sexual equivalent of that?

“I understand that sexually submissive men are a taboo in general society, but there are no taboos, here. You will get the most out of your holiday if you allow me to cater to your needs.” He leaned in, his lips brushing Eggsy’s ear. “Including your need to be fucked.”

Eggsy _quivered_ , like a plucked string, and was so alarmed by his involuntary reaction that he shoved Harry away. “You’re—you’re insolent for a—” Eggsy glowered at Harry, drawing himself up, even though his height couldn’t rival Harry’s. “I’m saying I don’t want sex, all right? I don’t. Want. Sex.”

Harry stared at him, as if Eggsy had sprouted horns. “You don’t want sex,” he said, flatly, before tipping his chin downward, deferentially, to excuse his momentary lapse in manners. “I apologize,” he said. “Clearly, I… misunderstood your exchange with Mistress Alcina.”

“I just.” Eggsy gulped, aware that he had broken character, terribly and irrevocably. He had loathed the idea of being Gareth Wentworth with Harry, but he hadn’t planned on being so thoroughly himself, either. “All I want is your—your company.”

Harry’s eyes narrowed calculatingly. There was a strange speculativeness to them, a sharpness, as if they saw right through Eggsy. “Is that so?” Harry said, quietly. “Then, I shall keep you company. Would you like a drink, ere we depart for the orientation? We have a mini-bar stocked with the best whiskeys and wines, and a plethora of vintages, besides.”

“I’ll have a Guinness,” Eggsy said, gathering his tattered dignity around him.

“Excellent choice,” Harry approved, and loped to the mini-bar with a rolling, predatory gait, his powerful legs flowing like those of a wolf’s on the prowl. Gone was the passive slave Harry had been in front of Alcina; this was a man comfortable in his skin, and confident of his appeal.

Eggsy had the distinct impression that Harry was tailoring his every movement to suit what he had deduced were Eggsy’s tastes, and that, while Eggsy had escaped the consummation of his status as a slave owner, he wasn’t quite out of the woods, yet.

 

* * *

**Author's Note:**

> Like my writing? Want updates and sneak previews? Follow me on [Tumblr](http://saucefactory.tumblr.com/)!


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